


hold me closer, tiny dancer

by shafferthefirst



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Childhood Friends, Christmas, Dance Prodigies AU, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shafferthefirst/pseuds/shafferthefirst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma Simmons is eight years old when her beloved teacher/coach/mum for twelve to fourteen hours a week tells her that she needs a partner, and the world seems to stop rotating on its axis for a moment.</p>
<p>His name is Leopold Fitz. Leopold Fitz with the unruly curls and nervous twitches is who May introduces to her a week later. He’s just her age and mumbles out a greeting and looks anywhere but her eyes, and Jemma can't seem to get a read on him at all. It’s very frustrating.</p>
<p>But then he dances, and everything about him seems to shift from black and white to color, and she's drawn to him like a magnet. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>A childhood friends/dance prodigies AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This should've-been-a-drabble-but-greatly-escaped-me-fic is dedicated to those really stinking cute 9 year ballroom dancers on So You Think You Can Dance that I couldn't shut up about until they didn't make the cut, and also Eva for inspiring/yelling at me to forever ago. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you Cindy for beta-ing and Laura just for being awesome.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a dancer and would probably trip and fall into the depths of hell if Satan himself asked me to dance in exchange for my soul. Take that as you will.

Jemma Simmons is four years old when she’s presented with her first pair of teeny tiny pink ballet shoes, and all seems right in the whole wide world from this point on.

 

She’s a bouncy little thing, has been from a time long before she could even walk. She is a bouncy, giddy bundle of energy that’s just brimming with excitement to the very top. Her mother gives her the shoes with a matching leotard and drops her off at the class a few blocks away every Tuesday and Thursday, hoping a routine activity might help the child learn to channel that energy.

 

And right she was.

 

-

 

She’s not quite sure what it means, but when she’s the  _ only _ sunflower on the small stage housing twelve that’s actually following the simple beginners’ routine (instead of toddling around or picking at her tutu or waving at her parents), Jemma believes Ms. May when she tells her she has a spark she’s never seen before. The patient teacher also quietly encourages her to come back the following year, and Jemma is  _ sure _ that summer is the longest amount of time in the history of anything that’s ever happened.

 

-

 

When autumn finally comes around, her parents sign her up for ballet once again, along with tap and jazz for more of a challenge. The five-year-old works hard, practicing every waking hour she can manage, performing for anyone that would sit in front of her for ten minutes, and even begging her father to play her dance music in the car on long drives just so she can feel it to the tips of her toes. 

 

And once the spring recital ends, Ms. May pulls her aside and offers private lessons over the summer so she never has to stop, and Jemma then knows exactly what she wants to never stop doing as long as she lives.

 

-

 

Jemma lives, sleeps, and  _ breathes _ dance for the next three years. She trains and excels in every genre thrown at her, greatly favoring any jazz routine that involves moving her feet as quickly as she can and contemporary as a whole for the fluidity and freedom. She also lands the spot of lead soloist for the junior division and the apple of Pilot Dance Company’s eye, which secures her a spot in every local talent show and competition in every surrounding city. 

 

Much like her humble studio’s name, Melinda May’s guidance, choreography, and patience, help Jemma to soar.

  
  


-

-

  
  


Jemma Simmons is eight years old when her beloved teacher/coach/mum for twelve to fourteen hours a week tells her that she needs a partner for recital season, and the world seems to stop rotating on its axis for a moment.

 

“But I’ve been our best soloist for as long as I can remember,” she points out, arms folded loosely across her chest in challenge. Jemma is confused, and a bit offended that she’s not  _ good enough _ supporting herself (but if she’s being honest, somewhere deep down the concept is moderately thrilling.  _ Very _ deep down.)

 

“And you are, but I think you’ll be even better at ballroom,” Ms. May counters, that knowing look gleaming in her eye. “And I know everything.”

 

Jemma can’t argue with that.

 

-

 

His name is Leopold Fitz. Leopold Fitz with the unruly curls and nervous twitches is who May introduces to her a week later. He’s just her age and mumbles out a greeting and looks anywhere but her eyes, and Jemma can't seem to get a read on him at all. It’s very frustrating.

 

But then he dances, and everything about him seems to shift from black and white to color, and she's drawn to him like a magnet. 

 

And then he climbs back into his shell as soon as the music stops. She runs over to shower him in compliments, because frankly she’s never seen anything  _ like  _ him before and he’s just  _ fascinating _ , but he’s back to mumbling again and moves to stand alone. 

 

Jemma would be lying if she said that gesture didn't sting. She’s been nothing but polite to him in the twenty minutes in which they’ve known each other and he already hates her.

 

Oh, well. They’re only trying this out for a week, after all.

 

-

 

Just as May predicted, she is  _ spectacular _ at ballroom. 

 

But Jemma definitely did not expect Leopold Fitz to excel too.

 

The task isn’t met without stumbling. Clumsiness, stepped-on toes, and awkward limbs here and there, not to mention giggling from Jemma’s side and a lot of blushing from his, but they’re both quick learners and there’s something about the tempo of the music that seems to be heard with every part of their bodies instead of the ears. By the end of the week, they’ve mastered the routine and he even returns the high five she offers to him, which means more than she can even put into words.

 

“Listen, um, Leo–” she says when she bounces over to him before he leaves. He shakes his head harshly.

 

“Fitz,” he corrects her.

 

“Right, sorry!” Jemma grins. “Fitz, then. That’s fitting anyhow.”

 

She catches his tiny smile before he wipes it off. “What, uh, what were you gonna say?”

 

Jemma Maude Simmons is an eight-year-old girl of many traits. Shyness isn’t one of them. So she isn’t sure why this is as difficult as it seems to be. She runs her thin fingernails over her knuckles and takes a deep breath.

 

“I know you don’t like me, but we’re the best dancers this company’s ever had. We’d make a great team, don’t you think?”

 

He falls silent for a long moment, fiddles with his shoulderbag strap, and she almost wants to say she was just kidding, until he finally speaks. “Why don’t dogs make good dancers?”

 

That’s not the response she expects. “Why?”

 

“’Cause they have two left feet.”

 

Jemma laughs then. He never gives her an answer, but when he shyly offers her half of his chocolate bar as they sit side-by-side on the front steps waiting for their mothers to pick them up, she just knows this newfound partnership is going to be something  _ good _ .

 

-

 

After two years of itchy costumes, hot chocolate with whip cream and sprinkles, newspaper articles, Mario Brothers,  _ break a leg! _ ’s, double-stick popsicles, leaps and twirls, homework in May’s living room floor between rehearsals,  _ intense _ showcase performances, and more all-night-practices-turned-movie-marathons-turned-sleepovers-in-blanket-forts than they can count...that partnership, she finds, would be better labeled as  _ magnificent. _

  
  


-

-

  
  


Jemma Simmons is ten years old when the doctors tell her parents that if their daughter wants to continue to dance throughout the rest of her life, they will need to go forth with a small Scoliosis corrective surgery as soon as possible, and the world seems to crumble at her tiny feet.

 

But Jemma  _ is _ a dancer down to every molecule, and not even this hurdle will stop her from doing what she does best. They schedule the surgery the morning after the spring recital, giving her the whole summer to recover. 

 

Fitz worries, as one does at the prospect of their partner undergoing something not unlike the horror movies they stayed up way beyond their bedtime to watch behind their fingers that one rebellious night a few months ago. Fitz voices these worries for weeks and Jemma brushes it off and reassures him each time, parroting the broken down procedure the doctor had explained at her last appointment. 

 

“You’ll stay while I go under, right?” she asks, voice small. It’s the night before her big day, there’s still glitter in her hair from the performance three hours ago, two hardly touched mugs of hot chocolate sit between them, and there’s the tiniest hint of worry on her face that has not been there at all since the subject of tomorrow came about.

 

“Yep,” Fitz says quickly. “Already have a crossword puzzle book and lots of snacks in my backpack. No need for me to leave at all.”

 

A smile works its way into her features. “I hope the waiting room chairs are comfy.”

 

_ “That’s _ what you’re worried about, of course.”

 

“Well, you’ll be sitting there for hours!” She slaps at his shoulder for laughing and shaking his head.

 

-

 

“I’m scared,” she admits in a whimper at long last, just after the clock strikes midnight. She sits in her sleeping bag next to his to face him. “I’m  _ scared _ , Fitz.”

 

“Jemma—”

 

“What if something happens? What if the doctor didn’t get enough sleep? What if she messes up and…” She’s quiet for a moment, and then barely above a whisper, “What if I can never dance again? Oh, Fitz, I just don’t know.”

 

“You know what my mum would say in a time like this?” Jemma groans, and recites the answer in time as he says it,  _ “If you can’t solve a problem, sleep on it.”  _

 

“I suppose you’re right,” she murmurs.

 

“You’ll be fine,” Fitz says sleepily. “Everything’ll be fine.”

 

He starts to close his eyes, but she taps at his nose a few times to keep them open. “You’re my best friend, Fitzy. I mean it.”

 

“You’re my best friend too,” he smiles. “Night, Jemma.” She settles back down on her living room floor, a content grin on her face for the time being as she drifts off to sleep.

 

But before that,

 

“I’ve never  _ once _ heard your mum say that, you know.”

 

Fitz throws a pillow at her.  _ Then _ they sleep.

 

-

 

As promised, he’s there when she wakes groggily after four hours of surgery, along with her parents and more balloons than probably necessary. 

 

_ “How was the chair?” _ of all the words in the English language, are the first she utters once her eyes land on him.

 

He barks out a laugh, choosing not to rub his neck as he had been, in order to soothe the awful crick in it from sleeping curled up against the hard metal frame. “It was _ perfect.” _

 

Ms. May visits the next afternoon, bringing her several chapter books, a large binder of get well drawings from everyone at the studio, and a dainty silver locket with a tiny pair of ballet shoes etched into both sides. Jemma cries because she can’t hug her yet.

 

Much to her disappointment, Fitz has to leave two days before she’s dismissed. She is left bedridden and bored out of her mind, having finished all of the books and leftover crossword puzzles when he was still there.

 

When discharge day comes, she learns the reason for his departure: turning her bed into the most incredible blanket fort (complete with fairy lights and her VCR at easy access) she’s ever seen in her life.

 

By week two, she’s completely stir crazy from her temporary immobilization, so Fitz helps Mr. Simmons wheel her outside and listens while he tells them about the stars and how they’re dancing just for her.

 

It takes time, and it doesn’t go without frustration from everyone involved, but with the help of physical therapy and her best friend by her side every step, the weeks turn into months and before she knows it, she’s bouncing back to her first lesson the following September. Jemma comes back stronger and more determined than ever before.

 

-

-

  
  


Jemma Simmons is twelve years old when she learns they’ve made it to the Top 10 of the most prestigious continent-wide dance competition she’s ever faced, and the world seems to spin as madly as she’s ever felt it has.

 

She's also twelve when  _ Fitzsimmons _ places second.

 

And she’s  _ also _ twelve when she catches Fitz in a clumsy, smacking, heat-of-the-moment kiss after they run on stage hand in hand. Jemma has her first kiss on live television. By  _ accident _ .

 

They part slowly, wide-eyed with equally shocked expressions, and they barely hear the audience cooing at them from the heartbeats thumping in their ears.

 

But the moment is swept under the rug when the host ushers them to stage right and announces the first place winner, and they don't have time to revisit it. 

 

Because Jemma Simmons is twelve and a half years old when her partner’s family moves him to the states, and her whole world shatters to pieces.

 

-

 

She sits on his bed and helps him pack up his room the night before he leaves, because of course he waits until the last second to. She helps him pack and reminds him to leave out his toothbrush and slips a bag of snacks, polaroids, a joke book, travel-sized sunscreen, and half of her locket into his carry on when he’s not looking. They build one last blanket fort and she falls asleep curled up in the floor next to him because neither of their parents have the heart to separate them just yet.

 

“I’ll write every week,” Fitz promises at 4am the next morning, bleary-eyed at the airport as she tightens the straps of his backpack.

 

“I’ll write every day.” Jemma swallows hard.

 

He laughs at that. “Always gotta one up me.”

 

She grins. “I wouldn’t be a good partner if I didn’t.” And then she throws her arms around his shoulders, nuzzles against his neck. He lets out an  _ oof _ in surprise, but pats her back awkwardly. “We’re still partners. Don't forget that.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And,” she murmurs close to his ear, “I’ll always be with you, Fitz.”

 

He goes for the full hug then, squeezing her tightly with his nose buried in her hair. 

 

“But if you get snot in my hair, I’ll kill you.”

 

He laughs again. And he knows this isn’t the end. 

 

They’re partners, after all. 


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, everyone! hopefully the grand finale won't take so long :)
> 
> once again, thank you cindy for beta-ing and cheerleading, and thank you laura for being laura <3

Jemma Simmons is sixteen years old when she stops being too busy with her budding career to really notice how infrequent the letters and phone calls between supposed best friends and partners have become, and both her heart and the world fall into a numb haze. Life gets in the way and wadded pieces of notebook paper constantly litter her otherwise tidy desk, and she throws herself into the old studio every free moment she has to escape, like she can dance away the melancholy feeling. Sometimes it works, but mostly it doesn’t.

 

From May and her parents’ encouragement, she’s tried out a handful of partners over the past few years to humor them, but ultimately returns to her former contemporary soloist spot. The spark just isn't there with any of them.

 

“He’s just...not the right fit,” she says after every trial run.

 

“Or he’s just not Fitz,” her coach always concludes, and Jemma rolls her eyes each time right on cue.

 

May  _ does _ know everything, no matter how painful the truth is.

 

-

 

When she’s seventeen and a half, moping, and pretending not to be with a tight lipped smile for the sake of everyone around her, Melinda May drops a manila folder atop her lap. Inside is information on a decent flat outside of New York City and two applications for an incredible dance school nearby; one student and one faculty.

 

Puzzled, she gives her a funny look.

 

“I think it’s time for a change of scenery,” she explains. “And I’m told I make a good roommate.”

 

-

 

(She writes to Fitz one last time. She’s not sure what possess her to, especially since she hasn’t heard a reply in at least a year, and there’s no guarantee he even has the same address. But a small part of her wants to give him an update nonetheless.)

 

-

-

 

Jemma Simmons is twenty-two years old when she finds herself in a simple routine, and the world spins on as it does.

 

She joins May early for morning stretches as the sun rises, a cup of tea from the hand of whoever didn’t make it yesterday, teaches twelve rowdy four year olds to point their toes for an hour and then nine year olds for another, finds some new street to explore on foot if the sun is out, meets her mentor at the school’s studio with lunch and shadows her daily afternoon lesson to the school’s summer students. Once May leaves for the evening, tossing her the keys to close up shop when she’s ready, Jemma dims the harsh lights and dances, dances, dances. She dances until she swears, metaphorically of course, that she can’t feel the ground beneath her feet. Like gravity no longer binds her with string and nothing can stand in her way.

 

Daily, she loses herself in her steps. Weekly, she learns and grows and explores the ever changing world around her. Occasionally, she might go on a date, even if it doesn’t take flight. Rarely, she watches those old tapes and her mind takes her back to the purest time of her life. And definitely, she finds herself wine drunk and crying on May’s knees over the crevice inside her she can’t seem to fill or pinpoint why that is.

 

But mostly, Jemma dances.

 

-

 

“Welcome to another fantastic audition round of the  _ Sophisticated, Highly Intricate, Extraordinary, and Limitless Dance _ program! Or, you know, the dance show that really,  _ really _ wanted the acronym  _ SHIELD.”  _

 

Now twenty-three and brimming with excitement from the tips of her toes, Jemma laughs nervously as Bobbi Morse ( _ the  _ Bobbi Morse!) charms her along with the rest of the contestants waiting in the theater. The world-renowned host also introduces the panel of judges: executive producer and former broadway director Phil Coulson, legendary tap dancer and award-winning choreographer—and one of Jemma’s dance  _ idols _ —Peggy Carter, reigning Latin ballroom dance champion Elena “Yo-yo” Rodriguez, and street-dancer-turned-music-video-sensation Lance Hunter (who is definitely  _ not _ Bobbi’s bitter ex.)

 

After a few more witty comments, Bobbi calls the first contestant to the stage, and Jemma’s heart leaps to her throat. She’s done hundreds of auditions in her life, her earliest being at seven years old, but not one has lessened the nausea that churns in her stomach beforehand.

 

Sensing her dismay, Melinda squeezes her wrist in the seat beside her. 

 

“They’ll love you,” is all she says. 

 

Jemma grins in thanks, forcing herself to breathe out slowly and pay attention to the others performing. One after another they go. Some are fair, some are great, some are cringe-worthy, and some are  _ spectacular; _ she’s so lost in the progression that before she knows it, May is pushing her up to—oh,  _ shit,  _ did they just call her number??

 

On shaky legs, she smooths out her contestant label pinned to her flowy lavender top and climbs the suddenly huge-looking stairs. 

 

“Hi,” Phil Coulson says kindly, waving as she makes her way to center stage. “What’s your name?”

 

Unfortunately, the previous contestant must have been taller, so she has to rise on tip-toe to reach the mic. “Jemma Simmons,” she responds, chuckling as she struggles to speak into it and the audience quickly joins in.

 

“Oh, an English bird!” Peggy Carter elbows Lance Hunter pointedly and then turns to Coulson. “Are we related too?” By the rolling of his eyes, Jemma can tell it was a running gag between them and grins wider.

 

“Well, she’s got Hunter’s height, in that case,” Bobbi snorts, materializing next to her to adjust the mic accordingly. Good  _ god, _ she’s two-hundred percent more stunning in person.

 

Belatedly, she snaps out of her awestruck haze to remember that she’s actually on stage and the judges are still asking her questions about herself. She pipes up to answer, her nerves dropping each time she makes the room chuckle with her wits and natural charm. Moments later, once her music has stopped and Jemma is already out of breath from her pose in the floor, the sight of  _ all four judges _ standing with golden tickets in their clutches brings her hand to cover her face to keep from sobbing right in front of them.

 

The tears really start to fall when she sees May waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her. Jemma nearly stumbles down them trying to get there, but she manages to catch her just in time, allowing her to cry happily into her shoulder.

 

“Is this the famous mentor we have heard about?” Elena asks with a smile, peering over the others for a closer look. Jemma nods frantically.

 

“She taught me everything I know.” 

 

May smirks, pushes the sweaty hair off her face. “And’s she’s taught me so much more.”

 

-

 

In five weeks’ time, SHIELD has finished hitting major cities across the country, auditioned thousands of hopeful dancers from a wide range of skill, and flown every contestant to the show’s studio in NYC. 

 

Currently, Jemma is one of two-hundred and thirty-seven sitting in the theater listening to Coulson explain the process to follow: two more rounds of auditions, to narrow the cluster to one-hundred and then fifty, and then the remainder will be paired up for a partner’s dance that will decide the top twenty to compete on the show. Not intimidating whatsoever. 

 

Round one goes by birthdays. There are a lot of spring babies, she notices. Jemma is September, so she has a while to wait as they’re still in early March. 

 

She’s very calm throughout the rest of the month. April makes her fidgety, bare toes pointing and curling on rotation in her seat. By mid-May she’s started quietly chatting with the girl sitting next to her, Jane, whose witty commentary keeps her entertained for most of the summer months. 

 

She’s laughed most of her nerves away as her date inches closer and closer; she’s about to mention this fact to Jane appreciatively, but then she hears Bobbi introduce a  _ Leopold Fitz _ and she nearly chokes on her own spit.  _ Surely _ her mind is playing tricks on her, right?

 

There’s a slight pause, the other dancers peering around curiously for someone to stand, and Jemma really starts to wonder if it was an auditory hallucination after all.

 

“Leopold Fitz,” the host repeats, scanning the crowd for him.  _ “Leopold Fitz.” _

 

Bobbi echos his name a few times, each intentionally sounding more and more like the teacher from  _ Ferris Bueller’s Day Off _ , each sending Jemma’s heart skipping beats over and over again.

 

Maybe it’s a coincidence. It  _ has _ to be a coincidence; it’s much too good to be true. 

 

_ Because there are dozens of other dancing Leopold Fitzes in the world, all exactly twenty-three days older than me, _ she reasons with herself.  _ Right. _

 

And then finally—oh god,  _ finally _ —a body rises from the audience about a dozen rows ahead of her. Jemma gasps out loud. 

 

There’s no coincidence. She knows that awful posture anywhere.

 

“Better late than never there, pal,” Bobbi comments into the mic as he moves to the stage. 

 

“Sorry,” a Scottish brogue much deeper than she remembers, but still recognizes, mumbles. “Just lost in thought.”

 

-

 

She doesn’t have time to ambush him after round one is over, the process moves much too quickly for it. Thankfully, both their names are announced in the first cut, but unfortunately, the next round involves splitting the top one-hundred into four groups for a test of following choreography. Fitz is placed in Wanda Maximoff’s group and she is in Joey Gutierrez’s.

 

Focus. Jemma needs to focus. Joey is kind and genuine, but also chock full of energy with a speedy jazz routine to match. She has to put whatever is going on in the adjacent rehearsal room out of her head if she wants to move forward.

 

And if there’s one thing she excels at, other than high leaps and leg extensions, it’s achieving her goals. She passes through round two with flying colors and before she knows it, she’s standing center stage within the top  _ fifty _ of the current season of  _ SHIELD  _ and she can’t stop smiling.

 

“Alright kids,”  _ the _ Isabelle “Izzy” Hartley (winner of the show’s third season and one of May’s favorites) claps her hands together to quiet the excited chatter. “If you thought your golden tickets were going to get you into the chocolate factory, you  _ might _ wanna take a breather outside! Those were just plain old candy bars, my friends. Possibly sugar free. Round three is where it really counts because it is your  _ very last shot.  _ Now, partner up and get to stretching. We start in ten.”

 

The room quickly leaps into frenzy, everyone racing and prodding and talking over one another to try to find the right fit. In other words, it’s a madhouse.

 

Jemma wriggles her way through the sea of embraces and fist-bumps. Her heart loud enough in her ears to intertwine with the conversations bouncing off the walls, she scans the room for familiarity, for curiosity, for the unanswered questions keeping her awake for over a decade, and for hope.

 

Right when that hope starts to dampen, her sightline catches a glimpse of curls, and then a form bouncing nervously on his toes, and then blue.

 

And then blue, wide and startled, catches brown, starry and bright, and she races home.

 

“Everyone find your partners?” Izzy asks, breaking the trance.

 

“Yeah,” Jemma wraps her hand around his shaking wrist and refuses to let go, “I’ve got mine.”


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you laura for brainstorming with me and then both laura AND cindy for beta-ing! <3 
> 
> i know i keep prolonging the ending but i swear it's on the way!!

Jemma Simmons is twenty-three years old when she’s reunited with her childhood best friend after a decade apart, and she expects the world to circle in tandem with the rest of the universe, that missing piece of her internal grandfather clock finally fitting where it belongs.

 

Instead, she finds it moving rather oddly. Like the piece is wonky, crooked, bent out of shape. The clock still ticks, but the timing just isn’t right.

 

Izzy moves quickly through the choreography, much quicker than the others the last two rounds so there is not much time for catching up. Jemma tries to spark up their childhood banter, tossing inside jokes over her shoulder and trying to coax a smile out of him on occasion as they follow along, but for some reason she can’t figure out, Fitz does not reciprocate. Instead, he shrugs her off or mumbles an apology or simply tunes her out altogether.

 

_ He’s trying to focus on the competition, _ she concludes eventually.  _ Which is what you should be doing too. _ She snaps out of it immediately. There will be time once they make the cut.

 

And when they do make the final cut, she throws her arms around him in excitement. Instinctively, he grips her back, smile evident against her shoulder—until he catches himself and wriggles out of her grasp entirely, taking two steps back and it feels like a slap in the face.

 

Before Jemma can confront him, demanding to know what she’s done to offend him and why he hasn’t said more than two words to her at a time the whole afternoon, Bobbi steps up to the mic again.

 

“And as for you, Top 20, congrats! And I hope you chose your partners wisely, because you’re stuck with them for the next eight weeks.”

 

Fitz coughs wildly to her left. Spectacular.

  
  


-

 

-

  
  


(“He doesn’t speak to me! And I don’t even know what I did!” Jemma beats her forehead lightly against the wall of her hotel room, phone pressed to her ear.

 

“Just give him time,” May says, “he’ll come around. I guarantee.”

 

“I do hope you’re right.”

 

“I’m  _ always _ right.”)

  
  


-

 

-

 

“Okay, everyone! Time to see what genre you’ll be performing this week.” Bobbi reaches into the glittery fedora she’s holding bright and early the next morning, and stirs up its contents with her fingers. She holds it out in front of them. “Who wants to go first?” 

 

Nat, a ballerina from the Seattle audition round, is the closest to her, so she drags her partner—Clint, Jemma notes—along and opens the first slip of paper, facing the inner text away from her. 

 

“Foxtrot,” he reads, nodding in approval. “Foxy.”

 

After two other teams select theirs, Viennese waltz and contemporary, Fitz nudges her gently from behind.

 

“We should, ah, we should go get ours soon. Before all the good ones are gone.”

 

She nods a little too enthusiastically, letting him take the lead to the hat. He freezes at first.

 

“Did you want to…”

 

“What? Oh! You can if you like.”

 

“No it’s fine, you choose.”

 

“I insist. Really! Go ahead.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, you do it.”

 

“You can; I don’t—”

 

“Oh for the  _ love _ ,” Bobbi settles the debate by reaching in herself, fishing out a folded paper and thrusting it open in their twin surprised faces. 

 

_ “Broadway,” _ they breathe simultaneously.

 

-

 

After every pair has selected a genre, they’re ushered back to the rehearsal rooms to meet their respective assigned choreographers. Jemma bounces excitedly through the door marked  _ DAYTRIP  _ in black and gold graffiti, Fitz trailing behind with caution.

 

“Antoine Triplett,” a tall man points to himself, before resting his elbow atop his shorter counterpart’s head affectionately, “Daisy Johnson. We’re stoked to be working with you for the next eight weeks.”

 

“Yeah, but don’t let these dopey smiles fool you; we mean  _ business _ .”

 

“No nonsense in this studio  _ whatsoever. _ ”

 

They cross their arms in concert, seriousness suddenly painted on their faces. Jemma and Fitz exchange glances for a split second, and then their choreographers promptly burst into laughter.

 

“Just kidding!” he says, “And call me Trip. Really, we’re just here to have fun and do what we love.”

 

_ “Well, _ I mean—”

 

He shakes his head. “Daze, what’s our rule?”

 

“No innuendos on the first date,” she recites blandly, meeting his pointed look.  _ “Day _ .” Daisy studies the tense pair before her, frowning. “O- _ kay _ , lighten up you two! We’re goofballs by any standard, but I promise you, we won’t let you down. At the end of the day, we’re here to help you win.”

 

“You can trust us,” Trip says sincerely. “We’ll work you hard, but we’ll have a good time. It’ll be—”

 

“Like a  _ daytrip!”  _ Daisy snorts.

 

He sighs, throwing his head back. “Girl, you  _ always _ steal the best line!”

 

They bicker and laugh and Jemma can’t help the bitterness seeping through her veins from the thought of  _ this is what we were supposed to be _ ,  _ not whatever…this... awkward limbo is. _

 

“Now, let’s get to work. It’s  _ showtiiiiiime. _ ” Daisy gives them enthusiastic jazz hands and Trip goofily does the same over her head, the same open-mouthed grins on their faces. 

 

Good lord, what have they gotten themselves into.

 

 

-

 

-

 

 

She’s nervous; after all, it’s her first live performance in years, and there’s no telling how long it’s been for Fitz. Quite literally, as he still doesn’t speak to her more than he has to in rehearsal and then descends to his hotel room when they’re done for the day.

 

It’s frustrating, but Jemma swallows the feeling down and chooses to focus on the other contestants from where she’s watching from stage right, cheeks rosy from hair and makeup as well as the nerves picking at her skin.

 

When the time comes to go on, she smiles brightly, nodding each time she catches his eye before the music starts up. It’s a rather upbeat routine—much cheerier than their current situation and spread across the whole stage. She loses her worries in the midst of it, and he even looks happy as the studio audience applauds when it’s over. 

 

For a selfish moment, she lets herself pretend they’re eleven years old again, and the world spins madly on.

 

 

-

 

-

 

 

Week two is something, that’s for sure. A hardly complex jazz routine with itchy costumes, that isn’t met without a cloud of awkward tension hanging above them when they stop to receive the judges’ criticism. Even Peggy Carter herself comments on the unsaid, which sparks a collective  _ oooh _ from the audience. 

 

Nonetheless, voters keep them afloat once again. For now anyway.

 

 

-

 

-

 

 

Week three, however, is a wake up call. 

 

To their absolute horror, and to Daisy and Trip’s sheer amusement, Fitz draws hip-hop, of all things, out of the hat this week.  _ Hip-hop _ , as in the  _ one _ genre they’d both skirted at all costs until this point.

 

Rehearsal is a mediocre disaster, to say the least. They memorize the choreography quickly enough, but following through with it effectively is an entirely different story. The movements aren’t sharp, Daisy can’t keep a straight face, and the chemistry just isn’t there. The struggling also leads to fighting which, Jemma is honestly grateful for at this point, as it’s the truest emotion she’s gotten out of him throughout this whole thing.

 

Showtime is better, but clearly not enough. They find themselves in the bottom three for the first time, and it’s  _ devastating. _

 

The judges critique each of the three pairings (Kara and Mike, Tony and Pepper, and themselves) one at a time. Jemma’s heart doesn’t leave her throat.

 

“Fitz, Jemma,” Bobbi says at last, voice solemn, “step forward.”

 

_ This is it _ , Jemma thinks, blinking back tears. Before she can talk herself out of it, she weaves her fingers through Fitz’s as they move up, seeking comfort. He squeezes back.

 

“You are both talented,” Elena reminds them. “Especially as what you know best. Everyone is. But in order to be the best, you must not be afraid to leave your comfort zone.”

 

“A key element in doing so is  _ trust, _ ” Coulson adds. “Trust in your choreographers, trust in your partner, and trust in yourself.” He eyes them over for a beat before continuing. “You’ve been doing good so far, but at this point in the competition, the stakes are really high. You can’t treat your partner like they’re going to break. You have to trust them.”

 

Tears freely fall from Jemma’s face as she nods, still holding Fitz’s hand.

 

“I’m challenging you to build up that trust over the next week. We’re saving you, now, but next week we won’t. Prove us wrong. Figure it out. Show everyone at home what you can do. Got it?”

 

She’s too shell-shocked to speak. She vaguely hears Fitz choke out a sincere  _ thank you _ before she flings her arms around his neck in relief. He startles, but his arms encircle her at long last and lets out the breath she had been holding since she first heard his name in round one.

 

-

 

Later, Jemma paces outside his hotel room, two steaming paper cups of tea in her hands, for a solid two minutes before sighing and turning back towards her own. 

 

_ In order to be the best, you must not be afraid to leave your comfort zone. _

 

_ You can’t treat your partner like they’re going to break. You have to trust them. _

 

The judges’ brutally honest words were exactly what she needed to hear at the time. Now, she needs to find the courage to act on them. 

 

_ Prove us wrong. _

 

_ Figure it out. _

 

She turns back around, marches straight to his door, raises her hand to knock—and the door swings open before she even touches it.

 

“Oh!” She gasps in surprise.

 

“Jemma, hi. I was just,” Fitz glances down at her hands, then at the contents in his own: two identical cups are stacked atop each other. “Um.”

 

“Yeah, I was just, too.” She smiles a little. “Did you want—”

 

“I was, um, thinking of what Coulson—”

 

“—we should probably—”   
  


“—might be a good idea to—”

 

“We need to talk,” Jemma finally concludes, stopping the uneasy spiral before it starts.

 

“Yeah, we do,” he nods. “Because there’s something you need to know.”

 

She gives him a puzzled look. “I believe there are a lot of things I think I need to know.”

 

“I concur.” He steps out of the doorway and grants her access, guiding her to sit on the bed. She leaves room for him beside her on the edge, but he waves her off, instead choosing to pace in front of her.

 

Since the moment she met him, all gangly limbs and curly hair and timidly nine years old, Leopold Fitz has never stopped surprising her. She’d learned to expect the unexpected early on. 

 

However, learning the horrifying details of a car accident at sixteen that left her childhood best friend without the ability to walk, let alone  _ dance, _ without feeling an insurmountable amount of pain, was  _ definitely _ unexpected.

 

“It was an injury from L3 to S1,” Fitz explains. “I was in physical therapy for years. My twentieth birthday was when I really, truly felt good enough to walk freely again, but the dancing didn’t come all the way back for another year. Still not to my full potential, in my opinion, but still the world of a difference.”

 

Jemma sits frozen in place, so he continues. “And then, a few months ago, I heard they were having this audition in Boston, so I thought, what the hell. Might as well give it a go, so I did.” He offers a small, exhausted smile. “So here we are.”

 

She does not speak for a long time. When she does, it’s one question:

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“Mum wanted to,” he says, sitting beside her without looking her in the eye. “Almost did, at first. I told her not to.”

 

Her brows narrow. “Why.”

 

“You were, um,” Fitz struggles to word his thoughts, pinching the bridge of his nose, before releasing a long, shuddering breath. “Jemma, you were in your prime. Your dancing career was taking off.”

 

“That didn’t  _ matter. _ You were my  _ partner _ , and you were  _ struggling. _ You needed—”

 

“I didn’t need to hold you back. That’s what I was afraid of, when we were paired up here too.” 

 

_ “Fitz,” _ she snaps, “you were my best friend in the world.”

 

“Yeah, and you were more than that, Jemma.” The words escape his lips in one breath and she half-gasps, half-sobs.

 

Immediately, he sweeps her into his arms, thumbing small circles into her back. 

 

“I’m sorry. I’m  _ so _ sorry. Just, let’s...can we please be okay?”

 

It takes her approximately five seconds to melt into his grasp, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and it feels like coming home.

 

“I think we can.”


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long ass wait, but the final chapter is suuuuper long, so hopefully it makes up for it? :)
> 
> Lots of love to Cindy for beta-ing <3

Jemma Simmons is twenty-three years old when she learns the truth about why her childhood best friend disentangled himself from her life years ago when he really needed her most (so that he didn’t burden her, of all reasons); after the initial heartbreak, two more cups of tea, and a lengthy conversation until nearly dawn side-by-side on the floor, the world beneath her feels steadier than it has been in a very long time.

 

They don't discuss it, but for some reason  _ you were more than that _ cannot stop circling her mind. She herself had never really stopped to think about it, but she wills herself to push it out of her mind before she can pick it apart. They’re finally on the same page; there's no need to complicate things.

 

After all, he said  _ were, _ not  _ are _ . Past tense. Nothing more than a childhood crush. Definitely no need to complicate things.

 

(The words keep her half-awake throughout the night.)

 

The next morning, he meets her in the lobby with a blueberry scone and a half—the entire missing chunk somehow crammed into his mouth—and they walk to the studio together, smiles on their faces and springs in both of their steps. 

 

-

 

“Oh good, you’re here!” Trip exclaims before they’ve even passed through the threshold. “Guess what day it is!” Daisy’s legs are locked around his waist, one hand in his, hair flying and laugh ringing as he twirls her around the room. 

 

When he stops spinning at the door, he releases his grip and her upper half drops upside down, only supporting herself with her thighs. She beams wickedly up at them. “Tango Tuesdaaaay!” 

 

Jemma throws Fitz a confused glance, who mirrors her.

 

“But we haven’t even drawn our genre yet!” she points out. 

 

“And it’s Thursday,” Fitz adds.

 

“Eh, technicalities.” Still dangling upside down, Daisy crosses her arms over her chest. “And  _ duh. _ It’s choreographer’s choice week!”

 

“And it’ll be Tuesday when you perform, so,” Trip smiles, helping her off of him.

 

“Plus we decided that genre on a Tuesday.”

 

_ “Taco  _ Tuesday, as a matter of fact.”

 

“The most important Tuesday.”

 

“Well,” Jemma interrupts, “I do hope Tango Tuesday will be  _ a touch _ more important than your weekly excuse to eat profoundly Americanized Mexican cuisine.”

 

“Hey! Taco Bell is  _ sacred _ shitty food, thank you very much. Now, in other news, Trip, if you would.”

 

He turns to the pair. “Last week was a disaster. The stakes are ridiculously high now, so we gotta go big or go home from here on out. You in?”

 

Jemma nods. “Whatever it takes.”

 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Daisy says, a mischievous grin on her face as she hits a button on her iPod dock remote. “Cause, let’s just say… you’re not going home.” 

 

-

 

As a dancer, Jemma finding herself in moderately compromising situations is a fairly regular occurrence, and has been for a long time.

 

However, dropping said compromising situations—this one being a darker, edgier, and ultimately sexier routine than any they've done together before—into the waters of whatever her relationship with Fitz is at the moment, keeps rehearsal  _ very _ interesting, to say the least.

 

“Fitz, you need to, um, lower your hands. A bit.”

 

“Yeah? Is that okay?”

 

“It's fine! Really. For the routine, and all.” She reaches behind her to guide his hands lower down her back, the warmth of his palms seeping through the thin material of her tank top. “It’s how Daisy and Trip demonstrated, and it'll make the lift easier.”

 

He cracks a little smile, rolling his eyes fondly. “Anything for precision, as always.”

 

“Well, you know me.”

 

The song this week is a very sultry cover of something Jemma doesn't think she’s heard in the past decade, but amuses her endlessly, even as it plays softly in the floor of the hotel’s empty event hall that they may or may not have broken into. This number is pretty complicated, with more lifts and dips than any other week, so Fitz had suggested going over the routine privately—somewhere without their well-meaning but intense choreographers breathing down their necks every time they’re not positioned close enough for a typical tango.

 

On her count, he dips her low enough for her ponytail to sweep the ground, rights her up, and dips her again. The bridge is where the pace really picks up, so their movements must be as quick as they are passionate.

 

“And I’m up on  _ one _ , two, three, four,” Fitz holds her tightly against him as her legs lock around his waist, spinning the way Trip had showed him, the way they’d rehearsed a dozen times tonight, and she stretches her arms out on either side of them as he dips her again. “Now steady, six, seven—”

 

And to his horror, tremors race through his left hand, loosening his grip before eight. “Shit,  _ shit!” _

 

Jemma hooks her arms around his neck in attempt to stop her fall. Instead, their foreheads clank together ungracefully as they struggle to regain balance by latching on to whatever they can reach, which happens to be each other. 

 

“Hey, Jemma,” Fitz says after a breath.

 

“Yes, Fitz?”

 

“You can, um, you can get down now. I think you’re safe.”

 

It’s only then when she realizes she’s still tightly wrapped around his torso with all of her limbs, his arms hardly having to touch her. “Oh.” 

 

Eventually their practice shifts from more or less groping one another and giggling at the absurdity in three minute intervals, to lazily swaying in the center of the sheet-covered tables they had pushed out of the way, skin a little sweaty and light blushes on their cheeks in the late hours of the night. His hand finally stops quivering when she holds it between their chests.

 

-

 

“The costumes are a bit itchy, wouldn’t you say?” Jemma mentions as they bounce on their toes behind the curtain, stage left. She rolls her shoulders to try to reach where the gray lace tickles her upper back. 

 

“Think our first showcase was the worst,” he nudges her side gently. “Remember all the fake leaves? I still have nightmares.”

 

“Oh, don’t remind me! I swear your mum and I were pulling those out of your hair for an hour.”

 

She finally gives and scratches between her shoulderblades, laughing at the memory of detangling plastic foliage from Fitz’s wild curls with his mother, when she feels a hand swat her back. 

 

“Hey!” she yelps.

 

“No picking at the costumes!” Daisy scolds, then she takes both of their hands in hers. “Now, break a leg you two. Be fierce. Be sexy. Make me proud. You can do this, aight?” 

 

_ “Let’s hear it again for Kara and Mike!” _ Bobbi’s voice rings out through the auditorium, followed by a round of applause. 

 

“You’re up next. Don’t forget to have fun, kids!”

 

“We’re older than you,” Fitz reminds her for the twentieth time, but Daisy blows them kisses as she scampers off to Trip, who winks in their direction and hunches over so she can spring herself onto his back, and that’s that.

 

The acoustic cover flows from the speakers as a single muted spotlight allows the audience a glance at their dancing silhouettes against each other, only lighting up the rest of the stage after the first verse. 

 

She lets him twirl her around before pulling her flush against him, her feet lifting off the ground, just as they practiced.

 

_ Too high, can’t come down, losing my head, spinning all around, can you feel me now? _

 

They’ve done this countless times, and earlier, she would say it’s like they never stopped, everything just as it was before their separation.

 

But his heartbeat against hers as they move seamlessly around the stage, paired with the intensity of his eyes locked on hers has never once shot heat through her body like it does now. Butterflies, maybe, in the past, but this is something entirely different. 

 

_ He’s just in character _ , she tries to reason with herself, and nearly loses her footing.  _ Focus. Focus. You’re on stage right now you bloody buffoon. Stop thinking. _

 

Fitz seems to notice her internal distress and tugs her closer, choosing to weave his fingers through hers as he dips her, rather than clutching her wrist as he’s been doing. That’s not for his character, she realizes; it’s for moral support, as they move into the bridge.

 

_ Intoxicate me now, with your lovin’ now, I think I’m ready now, I think I’m ready now. _

 

To her surprise, the big lift goes so well that the audience  _ roars _ , and she hopes the camera doesn’t pick up the relieved smile she can’t fight back. 

 

The dance ends with him supporting her full weight in his arms, foreheads together, panting desperately. And it isn’t until Bobbi claps her on the back that she realizes the music has stopped.

 

Well, then.

 

-

 

There’s a two week hiatus for the holidays after week four, kicking off with a contestant Christmas party immediately after the show. The tech crew has given the stage the illusion of colorful lights strung up and a fireplace burning from behind, with flashing red and green spotlights weaving in out of everyone as they dance about. 

 

After feasibly dodging Clint’s ever-growing conga line, Jemma finds her partner sitting in the floor backstage with a half-full beer bottle. He looks content, simply observing the happy chaos in the making. Grinning, she plops down beside him.

 

“Bit of a rowdy bunch, aren’t they?” He asks over the speaker.

 

“They’re something alright,” She shrugs, gratefully accepting a swig of his beer when he offers it to her.

 

“Daisy and Trip are trying to talk everyone into performing the  _ Mean Girls _ routine, just there,” she points them out. “So consider yourself warned.”

 

“Good thing I’ve never seen it, then.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“I’m really not.” He startles as Jemma slaps lightly at his shoulder.   
  


“Shut  _ up. _ You have to have seen it!” When he doesn’t answer that he’s actually pulling her leg, she steals his beer again. “Well regardless, I’m sure we have more than enough choreographers around to teach you the routine. And then we’ll just have to start movie nights back up, I suppose.”

 

She doesn’t miss the light in his eyes at her suggestion. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” she smiles, “I’d like that.”

 

They sit and chat effortlessly for hours it seems, nostalgia laced with laughter and tied with a bow. Eventually her head tips into his shoulder, the exhaustion of the week finally catching up to her. Despite their current arrangement on the floor, Jemma can’t seem to pinpoint a time when she’s felt this cozy in years.

 

That is, until Fitz suddenly tenses up, letting out a noise of uncertainty. 

 

“I didn’t know that was, um, that was there.” She lifts her head to figure out what’s made him so jumpy, to find a small, dainty plant hanging high over them. 

 

Objectively, it’s a great place for mistletoe, as it’s one of the main walkways to the main stage where just about everyone passes through, but right now it seems to be mocking them from above. 

 

“Oh,” she says quietly, cheeks flushing as she tries to swallow down the feeling that had overcome her earlier this evening. “Well, you know what they say. Bad luck and all that.”

 

Fitz looks puzzled. “Since when are you superstitious?”

 

_Since fate brought you back to me,_ something inside her screams, but she says instead, “Since our place in this competition is at stake.” And with that, she leans in to kiss his cheekbone.

 

“I dunno, I think tonight w—” Not realizing her intention, he turns to face her at the same time, accidentally catching her lips with his.

 

They both inhale sharply at the sudden contact, neither brave enough to move nor to retreat. They stay in the softness for one, two, three beats, and then she pulls away to stare at him wide-eyed.

 

Her gaze flickers to his lips again, remembering the warmth in which they give, before her tunnel vision begins to fade.

 

“I, um.”

 

“Jem—” Fitz starts to say, but she interrupts.

 

“I’d better go.” She quickly stands to dust off her leggings. “Early flight tomorrow.”

 

He blinks for a long moment, still a beat or two behind, and then jumps up as well. “Right. Flight tomorrow. Planes. Christmas. Yep, okay. Good.”

 

“Good,” Jemma nods. She makes it all the way to the exit before she turns around. “I’ll text you?”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That. Do that.”

 

-

 

(And they do text constantly over the break. About airline cuisine and the cold and noisy relatives they haven’t seen in years, gushing over seeing them dance on tv. And they talk about the competition they’d won before reaching the double digits and their favorite Christmas songs. When she live-texts him during her family’s traditional watching of  _ The Nutcracker  _ on Christmas Day _ , _ her mother hides her phone away in a cupboard somewhere; May steals it back for her before dinner.

 

They talk about tacky sweaters and the smell of pine needles and funny speeches they might give on stage if they win. They send goofy snapchats and iMessage their new year’s resolutions the whole flight back.

 

They mention everything, everything,  _ anything _ but mistletoe.)

 

-

-

 

“Mind if I join you?” Jemma asks brightly on New Year’s Eve when Fitz swings open his door with a surprised, but joyful, expression on his face.

 

“After you,” he says, gesturing for her to enter as he shuts the door behind them. “Thought you’d be at the party tonight.”

 

She shrugs. “I think being swarmed by everyone within a ten foot radius at home for two weeks straight is enough of a party for me.” Fitz wordlessly glances between her and the complimentary Keurig and hot chocolate cups scattered on the counter, a silent question. She nods excitedly. “Plus, I knew you wouldn’t go for the same reason.”

 

“So here you are.” He pulls a can of whip cream from the mini fridge and tops off the first insulated cup with a small fluffy pile, passes it to her. He adds an ungodly amount to the second once it’s ready. Jemma groans as he fills his mouth with the same amount, straight from the container. 

 

“You’re going to get a cavity,” she critisizes when he settles on the edge of the bed next to her.

 

“Yeah, you’ve said, and so far I haven’t had a single one.” 

 

She laughs, throwing back her head. “You are full of shit, Leopold Fitz.”

 

“Okay, I’ve had one.  _ Maybe _ two.” Off her knowing look, he caves.  _ “Okay,  _ Jesus, I’ve had four. And not one after the age of nine, I swear on my life.”

 

“Mm, seems I had a lasting impression on you.”

 

“Yeah, well, you knew that.”

 

Jemma shoves at his shoulder before sipping on her drink, and he does the same. It’s only then that she notices he has let his stubble grow longer than usual, which, objectively speaking, does give his jawline more definition. 

 

“You’re staring.”

 

“What?” she splutters, nearly missing the counter when she lays her cup atop it. “Me?”

 

“No, the old woman I sat by on the flight here.”

 

“Oh, shut up, would you? I was only  _ looking _ at you, because,” her voice trails off as she takes in his face, listening to her attentively. 

 

“You’re doing it again.”

 

_ What?  _ She thinks, then she  _ knows _ she’s staring.  _ Get a fucking grip, Jemma. He’s your best friend. _

 

_ And you were more than that, _ his voice from weeks ago whispers to her heart.

 

“You’ve got whip cream on your face,” she finally explains.

 

“Huh? Where?” He licks around his top lip, followed by the bottom, neither of which help her case. “Did I get it?”

 

“No, here. Let me.” Without thinking, she reaches out and cradles his jaw, thumbing at the white spot on his cheek. His breath hitches at the coolness of her palm, and hers at the warmth of his breath. For the second time in two weeks, they’re frozen solid where it’s soft. 

 

“Jem,” he murmurs, setting down his cup on the bedside table. 

 

As if on cue, party-goers from the event hall a floor below them start to chant in cheerful unison.  _ “Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five!” _

 

“Four,” they find themselves saying, barely above a whisper. 

 

_ “Three!” _

 

“Two.” She still hasn’t moved her hand.

 

_ “One!” _ and suddenly they’re kissing. There’s no beginning, not one they can document, but somehow they’re in the middle and breathing each other in. Her elbows lock around his neck, fingers curling in his hair, and he drags her to him by his arms around the small of her back. 

 

It’s like they’re magnetized, with every atom in their bodies shooting towards one another at once—no amount of closeness is close enough. She tugs at his curls and he moans against her mouth, tilting his head to the side to kiss her deeper. 

 

He pulls back first, both gasping for air as their eyes struggle to focus on anything but each other. Before she can talk herself out of it, she kisses him again, this time climbing into his lap to be even closer.

 

“Jemma,” Fitz says, voice lower than she’s ever heard it. He peers down at where her hand—the one that’s not playing with the curls at the back of his neck—rests over his racing heart. “Jemma, this. I. You’re—this is…”

 

“I know,” she murmurs, nuzzling against his nose. She cups his cheeks with both of her hands so he has to meet her eyes. “Fitz, I know.”

 

When he kisses her again, it’s softer, slower, sweeter, and mostly just his smile stamped to hers, and yet it’s also the kiss in which he pulls her down to sink onto the bed with him.

 

-

 

(“Promise me,” she whispers later, sometime between three and four in the morning, somewhere between consciousness and slumber. She taps on his naked chest when he falls closer to the latter. “Promise me that this will be our year.”

 

“Course it will be,” he slurs. “It’s you and me; how could it not be?”

 

“We don’t even have to win.”

 

“Think I’ve already won,” he mumbles sleepily, a lazy smile creeping into existence. Then he realizes what exactly he just said and he’s suddenly wide awake. “Not that you’re a prize to be won, of course. I didn’t acquire you, or whatever. You just—”

 

Jemma kisses him soundly, finding it her new favorite method of silencing him. “I’m yours.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

She traces her fingertips over his shoulder, lightly etching her signature against his skin. “And, there. You’re mine.”

 

“Property of Jemma Simmons,” he nods in agreement, kissing her knuckle.)

 

-

-

 

Jemma Simmons is twenty-three years old when she realizes that she is absolutely and almost embarrassingly besotted with her best friend, and the world is somehow brighter than before. 

 

And it’s only  _ almost _ embarrassing because, as she’s found, he’s stupid in love with her too.

 

-

 

Like any other sleepover they’ve had in the past decade and then some, she wakes first. 

 

But unlike those (which typically involved hot chocolate and tapes of past contestants’ routines until they passed out), the night before, though it did involve a few sips of hot chocolate, was far from innocent. Jemma wakes wrapped in his arms with nothing but sheets between them, and it’s warm and weird but somehow so  _ so _ right. 

 

He still snores, she notes. Not loud enough to be obnoxious, just soft, since he sleeps on his back the same way he did at nine years old. She’s also half on top of him, their legs tangled together and her arms thrown around his chest, face buried in his neck. 

 

His neck is rather prickly against her nose, though, so she shifts away and rests her head on his shoulder instead, which gives her a nice view of his face aligned with hers with the sunlight gleaming through his room’s large window.

 

His eyelids fluttering, as a particularly strong beam of light catches his face at an angle, draws attention to how  _ long _ his lashes are. It’s unfair, truly, that they are still this perfect after all these years (and even after he tried to cut them with a pair of safety scissors right before their first competition, because he was fed up with everyone making a big fuss out of his eyelashes  _ all the time _ and left them wonky and jagged). 

 

“Please tell me you’re not staring at my eyelashes again,” Fitz rasps without even looking at her. She startles, eyes growing wide, but melts back into him.

 

“Perhaps,” Jemma giggles. 

 

“Weirdo.” He chuckles as she nips at his shoulder before he surges forward to catch her bottom lip between his. They’re swept up in each other for a few minutes, and then he finally opens his eyes. “You look happy.”

 

“Hmm, and what could be the cause of that?”

 

“Beats me. It’s just a sleepover, y’know.”

 

-

 

Showing up nearly an hour late to practice isn’t their intention, but it is, like most things relating to their partnership, inevitable. 

 

Jemma pretends not to notice Trip slide Daisy a twenty dollar bill when they arrive without a drop of tension later.

 

-

-

 

Contemporary is definitely her favorite genre they’ve been given. The stage lights are soft, Daisy takes pity on them and finds the lightest costumes she can find, the chosen song is so sweet it brings tears to her eyes, and she spends over half of the routine both figuratively and literally swept off her feet, very content to stay wrapped in his arms for as long as possible.

 

“I know I said you found the spark last time we saw you,” Elena says with stars and sincerity in her eyes, “But I have repeat it;  _ you have found the spark.” _

 

Coulson turns in his chair to face the audience. “Everybody, everyone I want you to look inside yourselves, now dig deep, and get the biggest, truest, most heartfelt  _ awwww _ you have in your system ready, because I’m about to get real sappy over here—hope you have your dentists on speed dial.” He earns a laugh and a few raised eyebrows from the other judges as they wait for his declaration. 

 

“I’m not sure if I believe in fate,” he says calmly, “but I think you two were made to dance together.  _ That _ is what I kept you in this competition for.”

 

Jemma buries her face in Fitz’s neck, happy tears burning her eyes as the entire studio swoons and applauds. He kisses the top of her head twice. “I believe so too, sir.”

 

-

 

The following week brings a reaction just as enthusiastic. Their jive is full of energy and life and receives the highest total of votes for the third week in a row.

 

Week seven, however, is when the cosmos decides it’s high time to throw them to the wolves again.

 

-

 

“Hip-hop?  _ Again? _ ”

 

“There  _ has _ to be a rule to keep us from repeating genres!”

 

Jemma and Fitz pace around opposite of each other, frantically trying to find a way out of their predicament, as their choreographers calmly sit criss-cross in the floor, eyes following the show not unlike a tennis match.

 

“Technically, you drew  _ lyrical _ hip-hop.” Trip informs them. “Different thing.”

 

“Well, the last time we had a genre with hip-hop in the title, it didn’t go so well,” Fitz explains, as if they aren’t aware. “So excuse us for panicking  _ just _ a wee bit.”

 

“You’re still here though, right? So it didn’t go  _ that _ badly—” Daisy tries, but Fitz shoots her a glare and she stops. 

 

Jemma lets out a frustrated groan before unceremoniously dropping her head onto Fitz’s chest. “We’re doomed.”

 

Miraculously switching gears, he tilts her chin up with two fingers. “Hey, hey, none of that. Remember our resolution this year?”

 

“I know, I know,” she stretches up on her toes and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “Win or lose, it’s us. Right?”

 

“Right,” he smiles, kisses her again.

 

“C’mon now, I don’t have enough wine for all this cheese,” Trip groans playfully. Daisy rises to contribute, but his statement sends her thoughts in a different direction.

 

“Wine! That’s what we’re out of! Babe, put that on the grocery list.” She nods at him encouragingly, then shakes it off. “Okay, but let’s be real you guys. Do you really think your trusty choreographers would let you down when you need us the most?”

 

Jemma and Fitz turn to look at her, questioningly. 

 

“And that we don’t already have a kickass routine that’ll knock the judges’ socks off?”

 

When no one responds, but the expressions in the room are fairly hopeful, she grins wickedly.

 

“Hands in, aca-bitches.”

 

“Wrong movie, Daze,” Trip corrects her fondly.

 

“Wrong genre of performing arts, as well.”

 

“Just put your damn hands in or so help me  _ God.”  _

 

-

 

Though lyrical hip-hop is, by definition, a recent subcategory of general hip-hop, there are a surprising amount of differences. One being that it is actually a mix of just about  _ every _ genre without actually being any of them. Another, is the method of emotional storytelling in which, when performed properly, is kind of amazing.

 

It’s also the most fun their little team has had in rehearsals in all seven of their weeks together, and it reflects beautifully into their performance when showtime comes.

 

“So, now that you’ve officially made it to the finale, what would you say this competition has taught you most?” Bobbi asks Fitz once the judges give them the all clear.

 

“That for better or worse,” he hugs his beaming partner closer to his side, “I’ve got  _ you.” _

 

“Oh god, mate,” Lance groans into his mic over the audience’s coos, “did you really just quote your own routine song? That’s a new level of sap, even for you.”

 

“A and B conversation here, Hunter,” Bobbi deadpans, _ “C  _ your way out of it.”

 

“What about you, Jemma?” Fitz asks. “What’s the competition taught you the most?”

 

“Oh,” she grins cheekily up at him. Then, before winking directly into the camera, she says, “No need to ask, I’ve got  _ you.” _

 

-

-

  
  


“Got a second for a visitor?” a familiar voice asks, followed by the head it’s typically attached to poking through the double doors to hair and makeup. 

 

“May!” Jemma shrieks, leaping out of her chair to greet her. “I’m so glad you made it.”

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Her mentor fully enters the room, carrying a bouquet of colorful roses. 

 

“Oh, these are lovely!” 

 

As she gushes over the flowers, May pulls a second bouquet out from behind her back. “I have one for you too, Fitz.”

 

“Is that…are those  _ cinnamon rolls?” _

 

“Only the best for my kids,” she smiles, depositing the arrangement into his arms, which he looks over like she’s handing him his newborn child.

 

When loved ones are ushered out from backstage, she bids them farewell with a hug and a few encouraging words, reminding them that the point is to do what they love, and do it with passion.

 

Before she can exit, Jemma catches her by the wrist on her way out. 

 

“Our genre for the finale is  _ ballroom! _ ” she all but squeals. “Can you believe it? We’re back to where we began. And it’s judges’ pick week, of all things. Must be fate.”

 

“Yeah,” May says cooly, smirking a bit, and Jemma doesn't miss the flicker of mischief in her brown eyes. “Must be fate.”

 

-

 

“Welcome back to this year’s  _ Sophisticated, Highly Intricate, Extraordinary, and Limitless Dance  _ finale! So far, we’ve seen our four remaining couples’ final routines, a top ten reunion that still has us fairly  _ shook, _ to say the least, a spectacular performance from our lovely legend Peggy Carter and her special guest, Steve Rogers, and many other twists and turns along the way.” Bobbi’s radiant grin into the camera grows serious after taking a pause for the live audience’s cheering. “But, unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. We’ve already announced our fourth place winners: Thor and Jane, and third place: Wanda and Vision.”

 

She pauses after each, for their respective applauses, before continuing. “And now, after a truly fantastic eight weeks of showstopping performances, we are down to our final two, Nat and Clint, and Fitz and Simmons!”

 

Behind her, Jemma is hardly hearing their host’s words. She clutches her boyfriend’s hand so tightly, she would be worried, if he wasn’t holding hers at the same pressure.

 

“Win or lose,” she practically mouths, “it’s us.”

 

He runs his thumb over her fingers in agreement.

 

“I know what you’re all thinking,” Bobbi prattles on, “That I’ve done enough stalling—”

 

“Quit  _ mocking _ them, sweetheart,” Hunter interjects. She responds very professionally, by sticking her tongue out at him.

 

“Without any. Futher. Ado.” Her words escape through gritted teeth before she collects herself, the lights dimming around the stage and the climactic waiting theme quiets the laughing audience. Bobbi slowly opens the envelope without showing a smidge of emotion to the camera. “You voted, America. And your favorite  _ SHIELD _ team is…  _ Fitzsimmons!” _

 

All of the air in the breath she has been holding all week leaves Jemma’s lungs in a  _ whoosh, _ and she nearly collapses right there—she definitely would have, if Fitz’s arm around her waist wasn’t holding her upright. Balloons and confetti rain down on the stage and cheering echoes all around the auditorium, but she only vaguely notices. She’s much too swept up in the smile threatening to split Fitz’s face in half.

 

Gobsmacked, she’s about to throw her arms around him, when he meets her eye and utters two simple words that she isn’t expecting in the slightest.

 

_ “Marry me.” _

 

She freezes where she stands, and he slaps a hand over his mouth.

 

_ “Shit. _ Oh my god. I didn’t mean to say that—I mean I  _ did _ but not  _ right now! _ I was going to ask you later this week, you know, with a ring, and everything…”

 

Apparently, he had not put his mic pack back after being backstage last, but neither even notice hers until,  _ “YES! Yes, you idiot!”  _ shrieks across the entire studio, even over the closing music, and all nine-hundred-something people let out a collective gasp. The embarrassment lasts approximately five seconds before Jemma decides, to hell with it, and kisses him with everything she has. The audience  _ roars. _

 

Just like her first kiss,  _ their _ first kiss, Jemma gets engaged on live television. By  _ accident. _

 

-

-

 

Jemma Simmons is twenty-five years old when she’s presented with her second pair of teeny tiny pink ballet shoes, and all seems right in the whole wide world from this point on.

  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I actually went through with this oh my god. This was supposed to be a drabble.
> 
> Title is from Tiny Dancer by Elton John, which wasn't what I was originally going with but it was stuck in my head when I was writing the first chapter so it kind of stuck.
> 
> The morning after scene was prompted to me by Eva a while back I'm pretty sure but I can't remember, but I decided to work that into this instead of drabbling it, and the eyelash cutting thing was inspired by a real life event courtesy of my idiot brother when he was 7. SYTYD had a heavy influence on the main competition, Daisy and Trip's dynamic is loosely based off of my favorite choreographers', Tabitha and Napoleon D'umo (aka "Nappytabs":), and there are a few other little easter eggs for fans of the show as well.
> 
> A million thank yous to Cindy and Laura for always cheerleading!!! Y'all are the best <3 a special shoutout to the sandpenis group chat for waiting patiently (sort of) day in and day out, and a bonus round for anyone who knows the cover they danced to during week 4. 
> 
> If you would like to hit me up/prompt me/bounce headcanons off my head, see my tumblr @jemmaswan.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed creating it!!! :')


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